


Million Dollar Coin

by standbygo



Series: Coventry [3]
Category: Dollhouse, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Canada, Case Fic, Crossover, Established Relationship, M/M, Museums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: Still in exile in Canada after the events of Coventry, John and Sherlock accept a case in Toronto, investigating the theft of a unique coin. What they had assumed would be a simple case escalates until Sherlock's very personality is threatened.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Coventry [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/610780
Comments: 66
Kudos: 86
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PeaGeeTibbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaGeeTibbs/gifts).



> This is a sequel to Coventry, along with Fan Tan Alley. While this is more or less a case fic, there are some elements that will make far more sense if you’ve read Coventry.
> 
> This is a commission for @Peageetibbs, for Fandom Trumps Hate.
> 
> This is not a WIP; it's all written. New chapters will be posted every Wednesday evening.
> 
> Many thanks to @MissDavisWrites for her beta help!

John woke slowly, stretching into the sunshine of the early summer dawn. He looked out the window – they usually never bothered drawing the curtains at night, preferring instead to enjoy the sight of the mountain outside, with the privacy it afforded. The morning was clear, golden light sprinkling the evergreen trees and lighting the dull gray of the rocky terrain. He wondered what full summer would be like here, in western Canada: would it get stiflingly hot as London often did, or would they be protected by the altitude and the ocean, only a short distance away?

A grumbling sound at his side made him turn to Sherlock, still asleep and burrowing into his pillow. Sherlock seemed to be still in the same position as when John had rolled off him the night before. John stretched his muscles, used so vigorously last night, and revelled in the soreness as another example of how good life was. They were safe, after more terrifying moments than John would like to recall. They were together, after it seemed that the world was trying to keep them apart. They were in love, and every time Sherlock kissed him, or touched him, or crawled into bed with him, John would experience a small shock of joy and wonder. So. Life was good.

If he occasionally missed London, he kept it to himself.

John rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb Sherlock. Sherlock generally didn’t sleep much, but when he did John liked to preserve this state, this state of being near Sherlock as he slept; this was a wonder that belonged only to John Watson, aka Art Doyle, and he meant to keep it that way.

Plus, last night had been energetic and passionate and John hoped to be able to repeat at least some aspects of the encounter at some point later this morning.

John padded into the kitchen of their flat, and pondered the daily question – coffee or tea? It didn’t matter to John which, but it had taken him ages to figure out the complex formulae that applied to Sherlock’s choice of morning drink. At first it had seemed random, but then a pattern began to emerge: if there was a case or an experiment on the go, it was coffee to act as a jolt to align Sherlock’s carefully balanced senses after a long night awake. Tea was generally for a gentler day.

In this instance, tea: Sherlock tended to prefer it the mornings after intense sex.

John made the tea and poured for himself and Sherlock, and returned to the bedroom. He put Sherlock’s mug at his bedside, then circled around and carefully crawled back under the blankets. He had hoped to avoid disturbing Sherlock’s sleep, but Sherlock’s eyes fluttered.

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock said, his voice rough in a way that reminded John once again of last night – the knowledge that Sherlock’s normally brandy-smooth voice was ragged because John had made him scream out made John’s cock give an interested twitch.

“On the bedside table.”

John smiled as Sherlock woke the rest of the way up, frowning at John, then bursting into a smile that John knew was for him and him alone.

“Hello,” Sherlock said.

“Morning,” John said as he kissed him.

The kiss was beginning to turn passionate, and John was just about to sacrifice the pleasure of hot tea in favour of hot something else, when Sherlock’s phone rang.

Sherlock’s frown returned as he broke the kiss. “Who could be calling at this ungodly hour?”

“It’s gone ten, love.”

“You’ve ruined me,” Sherlock said as he rolled out of bed in search of his phone. “I recall being able to get by on only a few hours sleep before I met you. Ah!” Sherlock found his jacket, discarded in a pile on the floor from the night before, and pulled his phone from the pocket.

John was gazing at Sherlock admiringly as he stood nude in the morning sun – God, how was he so lucky that this beautiful, brilliant man was his?

Sherlock, as if aware of the gaze, gave a sidelong glance at John and the obvious swelling erection under the sheet. “On the other hand, I do love being ruined by you.”

“Oh God,” John muttered, just as Sherlock answered the phone.

“Good morning, Captain Xu,” Sherlock said.

John sighed, but his disappointment wasn’t huge; they had now worked several times with Jamie Xu of the Victoria Police department, and while the cases weren’t generally terribly interesting, they kept them busy. John rather liked the officer, who combined professionalism and friendliness that had now made him a friend as well as a colleague.

Sherlock brought the phone back to the bed, putting it on speaker while he grabbed his still hot tea.

“Hi, Jamie,” John said. “What’s up?”

“Nothing from me today, guys,” Jamie said, “but what do you think about a road trip?”

**

In a shorter amount of time than John thought was possible, they were packed and ready for Jamie to drive them to the airport.

“How long of a flight do you think it is to Toronto?” John said.

“An hour at most, I should think.”

John sighed internally. With his typical narrow focus, Sherlock had never really grasped the vastness of the country they had made their temporary home. While John wasn’t much better, he suspected that an hour might only get them out of the province.

Instead of arguing the point, he turned to his suitcase. “Take the gun, you think?” he said. “The paperwork’s fine, your brother took care of that, but it will just take longer at the airport to register it.”

“I don’t think you’ll need it. Take your firearms license though.” 

“Right.” John checked his wallet to ensure it was still there, the false name of ‘Art Doyle’ still causing him to do a double take whenever he saw it. “Got your passport?”

Sherlock patted his breast pocket. “Joseph Bell is ready to go.”

“Got your magnifier?”

“In my pocket.”

“The lock-picking kit you like to pretend I don’t know about?”

“…Suitcase.”

John zipped up his suitcase, surprisingly useful given that he bought it without really looking at it during their flight from London so long ago. He glanced around looking for anything he may have forgotten. He saw Sherlock’s violin case, the instrument neatly put away, the playing of which had triggered the vigorous sex the night before. “Taking the violin?”

“No need. This case is marginally a four, I’m only doing it as a favour to Jamie.”

“Plus a trip to Toronto.”

“Well, yes. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.” Sherlock’s phone beeped. “And there’s our cab. Off we go, John!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get to Toronto, meet their contact, and find out a very important fact about the stolen coin.

The flight was uneventful. John thought that, short of a crash, all flights would be considered uneventful compared to their adrenaline-soaked trip from London to Victoria nearly six months ago: trying to remember his newly-given identity; Sherlock shaking and sweating under the shock of forced assimilation of his disparate personalities; John struggling to keep calm to avoid alerting the flight personnel to the distress.

This time, Sherlock spent the flight memorizing a map of Toronto, and reading up on cold cases in that city – Jamie had had very little information on the case for them to prepare with, preferring instead that his friend brief them when they arrived. John watched a couple of movies and napped a bit.

Five hours later, the plane dipped its wing over a cityscape that glittered with office buildings, and an impossibly tall thin tower that looked like a 1960s version of a futuristic spaceship. Even Sherlock lifted his eyes from his phone to look.

“The museum’s a few kilometres north of that tower,” Sherlock said. “Right in the heart of the city.”

“Is anyone meeting us or do we make our own way there?”

“Jamie said his friend would meet us and take us there.”

The exhaustion of travel started to hit John as they deplaned and waited for their luggage to come around the carousel, but Sherlock was vibrating with increasing intensity with every passing moment, the excitement of the pending case giving him extra energy. John was wondering if he could beg for a coffee to sustain him for a few more hours when they saw a man holding a sign saying “Bell/Doyle”.

Jerome Maitland had been Jamie’s friend at uni in Toronto, but John couldn’t think of two people more unalike: Jamie, their contact with the Victoria Police, was of Chinese descent, compact and wiry, his hair buzzed close to the skin; Jerome was a black man, enormously tall and broad in the shoulders, with a cascade of black and gray dreadlocks down his shoulders. Jamie had moved to British Columbia and joined the police force there right after uni; Jeromie had stayed on in Toronto, working security in various places, rising eventually to the role of Head of Security at the Royal Ontario Museum. John tried to imagine the two men side by side and failed. As they approached him, however, Jerome’s face split into a huge grin that immediately dispelled all of John’s subconscious nervousness about the man’s size.

“Mr. Bell, Dr. Doyle,” he said, “thank you so much for coming to Toronto.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said. John wondered how often Sherlock had had to tilt his head up to look someone in the eyes, as John was accustomed to doing every day.

Jerome led them to his car, where John wordlessly surrendered the front passenger seat to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock would want to discuss the case, but one look at the back seat, with the driver’s seat pushed all the way back to accommodate Jerome’s height, and a baby’s booster chair as well, told John that he would be the only one who would be even passably comfortable there.

“Do you want to go to the hotel and check in, and come to the museum in the morning, or-”

“No need to waste time, we can go directly to the museum,” Sherlock said.

“Fair enough,” Jerome said, as he drove out of the airport and onto the widest, most terrifying highway John had ever seen. “I’ve booked you at the hotel directly across the road from the museum, so you can just head over when you’re ready to collapse.”

_Unlikely_ , John thought. Sherlock tended to sleep only periodically on a case, but he knew for himself that between the flight, the time change, and a new case, this was going to be a long day. “Is coffee nearby?”

“There’s a coffee place behind the church kitty-corner to the museum. We call it Saint Arbucks.”

It took John’s jetlagged brain entirely too long to get the joke, then he found himself giggling in a terribly undignified way for a visiting consulting detective’s assistant. He could almost feel Sherlock glaring at him, then Jerome started a big, booming laugh that kept John going for a while.

“Mr. Maitland,” Sherlock said when he’d deemed they’d laughed enough, “tell me why you’ve chosen to call Captain Xu and bring us in rather than call the police?”

“Police means the press gets involved, and we can’t afford for the press to get involved,” Jerome answered. “The museum is in a financially challenging position, and we can’t risk a reduction in patrons, or in bad press saying that we can’t take care of our stuff.”

John heard Sherlock mutter something that sounded a lot like, “Well you _can’t_ ,” and he coughed to cover it up.

Jerome must have heard anyway, as his voice was a little less affable as he said, “The idea was that we’d bring you in, and when you’ve figured out the thief, and the location of the coin, then we’ll bring in the police to make the arrest, and that’s _good_ publicity.”

“What if we can’t find it though?” John said, and felt rather than saw Sherlock glare at him.

“Jamie says you can find it,” Jerome said calmly. “So I think you’ll find it.”

Sherlock was clearly mollified by this, and sat back in his seat. “Tell us about the coin.”

“It’s called the Big Maple Leaf. It was minted in 2007 and valued then at $1 million dollars – Canadian, of course – but now it’s estimated to be worth about $4 million.”

“One coin – four million?” John said in astonishment. “It’s not an antique?”

“No, but there’s only six in the world. Very rare. Pure gold, or at least as pure as it can be – like 999.99/1000 pure. It was on display in our minerals and gems gallery. We’ve roped off the area, so no one’s been in there since the theft was discovered last night. Here we are.”

Jerome pulled up outside a building that staggered John’s senses. Most of it was a huge Victorian era stone building, with beautiful carvings across its façade; but on the north side of the building was a huge modern glass and steel addition, arching jaggedly at angles into the street. Even John, who was used to weird London buildings such as the Shard and the Gherkin, thought it looked a little out of place. Privately, John thought it looked like a flying saucer had crashed into the structure. Even Sherlock, who rarely noticed, let alone paid attention to non-crime related things such as architecture, paused for a moment to stare, frowning. Then he shrugged minutely, and they followed Jerome into the building.

[ ](https://news.artnet.com/app/news-upload/2016/11/Royal_Ontario_Museum_9674325453.jpg)

Inside, it looked more like the museums of John’s youth, and school trips to the Victoria and Albert or the British Museum. He felt his childhood love of paleontology swell at the sight of a dinosaur skeleton on display in the lobby, but quashed it quickly as Sherlock and Jerome swept past it without a second glance. Maybe he would get a chance to explore later.

Jerome led them through a golden rotunda, clearly part of the original building, up a stone stairway which curled around a totem pole similar to others they had seen during their stay on the west coast. One gallery opening was blocked off by a barrier, with a large sign saying “This display is undergoing maintenance.” There was a guard next to the sign, which somewhat belied the message of the sign; the guard nodded at Jerome and allowed them to pass.

The room was filled with samples of minerals, glittering in the bright light of the room. John could imagine children running from display to display, gazing at the jewel-like formations and talking of pirate treasure. One corner of the room was roped off, and glass littered the floor.

“We’re not sure what he used to smash the casing,” Jerome said. “Something hefty, anyway – the glass is – was – a centimeter thick.”

Sherlock was standing just outside the rope, looking over the scene with the calculating, deductive gaze John knew so well. He pushed back the arousal he always felt whenever Sherlock went into deductive mode, and turned his attention to the case instead. He could see the hooks in the bottom of the case, clearly showing where the coin had been sat. He blinked – something wasn’t right.

“Wait a minute,” he said to Jerome. “You said it was a coin?”

“Yes,” Jerome said.

“I thought – how the hell big was it?”

“Fifty centimeters in diameter, two point eight centimeters thick,” Jerome said.

“And pure gold? It must have weighed a ton!”

Sherlock turned to face them. “About 100 kilograms,” he said. His eyes were dancing, and he was nearly bouncing on his toes. “Congratulations, Mr. Maitland,” he said. “This case has just elevated from a three to a seven.”

[ ](https://www.macleans.ca/wp-content/uploads/2019/01/JAN31_NTV_GOLD_COIN.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More information about the coin (yeah, it's real. But it wasn't stolen from the Royal Ontario Museum, though one was stolen from a museum in Germany): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Maple_Leaf
> 
> More about the Royal Ontario Museum: https://www.rom.on.ca/en


	3. Chapter 3

John was still goggling over the concept of a coin the size of a sewage drain cover as Sherlock threw himself to the ground and began to examine the floor, the glass, the case where the coin had been displayed.

Jerome was staring at Sherlock crawling slowly across the room, his nose nearly brushing the floor, then shook himself and handed John a file labelled ‘Big Maple Leaf’. “You understand why we couldn’t give many details over the phone, or even to Jamie. I trust Jamie, and because he trusts you, so do I; but there was just too much risk in sending more than the minimal amount of information.”

“I was imagining a coin – slip it into your pocket and head out the door,” John said. “There’s not a lot of people who could carry something like that.”

“We had to move it for a loan to Ottawa for the Queen’s Jubilee in 2012. I was one of three helping. There’s no way one person could lift it alone.”

“Whoever it was, didn’t manage it,” Sherlock said from the base of the display. “They dropped it here – do you see?”

Jerome groaned. “Damaged then, for sure. Shit.”

“But they had a wheeled carrier of some sort,” Sherlock said. “A bicycle perhaps, but I’m not sure yet. There’s faint marks of rubber, a single line but two wheels. Ah!” He pulled a small evidence bag from his pocket. “The thief wore trainers, or possibly boots but the tread isn’t very deep. There’s a clump of mud here – not enough for me to figure out the brand of shoe from the pattern, but enough to analyze.” He looked up sharply at Jerome. “No one’s been through here, correct? None of your guards trampling through and contaminating the scene?”

“No.” Jerome looked faintly insulted, but fortunately only faintly. “There’s a strict protocol – when a theft is discovered, leave the area, block it off and call me directly.”

John was seeing more and more why Jerome and Jamie Xu were friends – initially easy-going but sharply professional when it counted. Sherlock seemed satisfied as well, and returned his attention to carefully transferring the tiny clump of mud from the floor to his evidence bag.

Sherlock stood, slipping the baggie into his pocket. “What time did the theft occur? Is there security footage?”

“After hours, between 1:15 and 1:30am. Yes, there’s footage but it doesn’t show much.”

“Let’s see. I think I’ve gathered everything I can from here.” They followed Jerome out of the room. “If it happened after hours, there are three options: you have a faulty lock on an entrance, or you have a rogue guard who decided he wanted a raise.”

“Checked all the doors; alarms were secure and unbroken. All guards on duty can be seen on camera doing their rounds at the time of the theft. I’ve checked in with all the others, and they are accounted for – no one’s taken a runner.”

“Then the third option: your thief found a way to stay in the building after hours.”

Jerome shook his head, looking faintly angry and disappointed. “Possible. It’s a big building, it’s a challenge to sweep the whole place. Every once and a while we get a teenage couple thinking it would be a thrill to stay the night, but they’re generally caught during rounds.”

“Then you have someone at least slightly more intelligent than a teenager.” Sherlock turned to John. “John, look through the museum and find some possible places where someone could elude the night guards and then make their way here. Be mindful of the cameras, as the thief would have been. Text me with the possibilities, and we’ll double check the footage for those areas.”

“Right.”

John was simultaneously excited and disappointed: pleased that he would get a chance to explore the museum, but he would need to look with a very different eye than a tourist would. Perhaps when the case was solved – in just a day or two, as Sherlock estimated – he and Sherlock could go through the museum together, and perhaps find one of these hiding places for a semi-public snog.

He got a map from the front desk and studied the layout of the building portrayed there. The museum was huge, unsurprisingly. He was going to have to go through the building quickly if he hoped to see all of it in one day, and certainly not stop to admire the exhibits. Ah well, perhaps he could make mental notes of the areas he’d like to revisit with Sherlock later. He sighed and slipped the map into his pocket. Start on the first floor, and work his way upward, he decided.

Several areas of the museum were interactive, and John could see children running around playing hide and seek. At first, he thought watching the children would be a useful tool for him to find appropriate hiding places, then he reconsidered – anyplace a child would hide would be one of the first places a guard would check during the night sweep. Nonetheless, he marked those places on the map with a circle and a question mark. Most of the museum was open, with few corners; he thought again of what Jerome had said about teenagers trying to hide for the night. John laughed at himself, realizing that he was trying to think about hiding places like a child or teenager. At least he was considering places for a snog like a proper teen.

The Biodiversity Gallery was filled with stuffed animals such as foxes, raccoons, rats and squirrels, their glass eyes glinting in the light. John shuddered at the thought of being alone with the display after the sun went down. There was a bat cave that John went through, noticing the tiny security cameras in the high corners, and dismissed it as an option; the guards likely kept a close eye on the area all day. He cheekily waved at the camera in case Sherlock was watching.

In the same area was a reproduction of a wolf den which children were crawling in and out of, having a grand time. John wondered if there were cameras inside the den as well, but he was too big to fit in and too self-conscious to try. He figured if he tried to go in when the kids were around, some parent would drag him out and beat the shit out of him.

The Ancient Egypt gallery had some likely possibilities. The room wasn’t square and open like many of the others, but rather angular, with displays jutting into the room. A nimble person could probably stay out of sight of the night guards in here, especially if they were knowledgeable about the patterns of their route. There was also a small room decorated like a tomb, where he had to crouch to enter, and couldn’t stand even once inside. A possibility, but the room was relatively bright and there was no place to hide, really. Just as he came out, his phone chirped.

_ Where are you? – SH _

Ancient Egypt.

_ Meet you there. – SH _

While he waited for Sherlock, he decided to test his theory, and slipped behind one of the niches in the room. A few moments later he heard the distinct tapping of Sherlock’s hard-soled shoes echoing through the room, clear even over the murmuring of the few other people in the room. The footsteps stopped, and John could imagine Sherlock standing in place and scanning the room. After only a few seconds, he heard the taps making their way toward him.

“Hello, John.”

John grinned at Sherlock, whose mouth quirked up in reply, the lovely twisted smile that John knew was only for him.

“So you found me, of course. But could a guard?” 

“Not if the thief is as clever as you are.”

“Flatterer. Did the video help?”

“Not really. Too grainy and dark, but it’s evident that the thief was wearing dark clothing, made his way to the gallery between the guards’ sweeps of the area, and took the coin away on one of those scooter things that teenagers seem to have.”

“Was it a kid?”

“Doubtful. Teens have a way of walking that indicates that they’re not really used to their bodies yet.” Sherlock nodded toward a group of teens who admittedly didn’t seem to be in full control of their limbs. “But I won’t completely discard the possibility yet.”

“What’s next then?”

Sherlock patted his jacket pocket. “Analyzing the mud sample I found. Jerome has gotten access for me to the University’s lab – I want to check the pH balance of the earth. Should indicate more or less where they’re from. Your task is to get me samples from the different parks around town.”

John glanced at his watch, but before he could say anything, Sherlock said, “In the morning, of course. I’m going to the lab now, but you can check into the hotel for us.”

“All right.” 

They headed towards the gallery exit when Sherlock stopped in his tracks to stare at an Egyptian coffin on display, fortunately empty of its mummy. It wasn’t like Sherlock to stare at something unrelated to a case, and John stopped with him, curious.

“Okay?” he said, when Sherlock didn’t move.

Sherlock shook himself minutely. “Just a memory.”

Memories were odd things for Sherlock, given his history – split into several different personalities and forced back together by a now-destroyed technology. Sherlock had worked hard to integrate the personalities, but every once and a while they would catch up with him.

“Of what, love?” John said, softly enough for only Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Do you remember when we had to return to the House, and I had to sham as Coventry for two weeks?”

“Yes. I still don’t understand how you did that without going spare.”

“It was a challenge, I’ll admit. More to the point, did I tell you where the actives slept?”

“Yes, in little sunken beds in the floor, covered with glass – oh.” John looked down at the coffin and realized how similar it must have been to those beds. The actives at The House had been child-like naifs, mildly accepting all that happened, even at its most chaotic. Of course they would sleep in such a place without an objection, if they were told to. For someone who was aware, however, it would be disconcerting at best; for someone like Sherlock who thrived on stimulation and input, it must have been intolerable.

“Well, we won’t be sleeping here,” John said, shaking Sherlock’s hand a little, trying to pull him into the present. “We’ve got a hotel with a bed and all.”

Sherlock broke his reverie with a smile. “True – but I want to get started at that lab.”

“Not too jetlagged?”

“With this case? Not at all. Still, we’ll wrap this up in a couple of days.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets into a rut in the case and John is worried about the consequences on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having read Coventry, the first story in this series, will make a little more sense out of the events in this chapter.

The next day John visited five parks in the city, taking public transit. He learned some important things that day – first, that Toronto was a huge city, as big as London in terms of its sprawl. Second, their public transit system was nowhere near as complex as London’s. There were really only two lines, one going north/south, and one going east/west. There were a lot of bus and streetcar routes, but getting to those five parks took John all day, and at the end of it he was sweaty, exhausted, footsore, and only had five tiny pouches of evidence to show for it. He took a shower and then perused the map of the city he had bought, circling all the parks. Then he went online to research and found that the city had hundreds of parks within its boundaries.

“And that’s not including the little parkettes that are sometimes on corners,” Jerome said when John called him for an update. “Some of them are only twenty square feet, just big enough for a bench and some flowers.” He must have heard John’s squawk of despair, as he gave a rueful laugh. “Doesn’t London have a lot of green spaces as well?”

“True, probably just as many, given the geographical sizes of the two cities.”

“Well, here’s an idea. The staff of the museum come in from all over the city. Why don’t I ask everyone to bring a sample from the parks in their neighbourhoods? That should save you the footwork.”

It was a brilliant idea, and resulted in scores of baggies piling up at Sherlock’s side in the lab he had somehow commandeered for himself. John took himself off dirt-collecting duty, and reassigned himself to sorting the evidence and developing a coding system that connected each bag to its place on the map. He also designated himself as ‘official coffee fetcher’ and ‘stuffer of food into Sherlock’s mouth every once in a while’.

Running each bag through the testing process took time and patience, and Sherlock was working through them as quickly as he could, but not as quickly as they piled up.

Several days passed, and they were no closer to an answer than the moment they had arrived at the museum.

Jerome was getting increasingly tense. John didn’t envy him at all; he had taken a calculated risk in calling them in before the police, but if Sherlock and John didn’t solve this soon, he would have to call the police in, who would no doubt be displeased about the delay and a trail that was getting colder and colder.

Sherlock was getting more and more frazzled as time went on. He no longer said anything about the case being wrapped up quickly. He muttered under his breath as he worked, sometimes in English, sometimes Mandarin, sometimes a language that John couldn’t recognize. His hair was an unholy mess as he pulled at it. Despite John’s efforts to keep him fed, the weight dropped off him, and dark circles appeared under his eyes. John could sometimes convince him to lie down on the hotel bed, but he doubted Sherlock stayed down for long, certainly not long enough for the deep sleep he needed.

John saw the disadvantage of working in an unfamiliar city. Sherlock had spent years getting to know London, and could identify the area that someone was from just from the sight of the mud on their shoes. Here, Sherlock was completely unfamiliar with the city and its geography; being on a completely different continent made a difference as well. He was trying to develop his knowledge of Toronto to the same level of his knowledge of London, except in a few days instead of over a lifetime.

Slowly, Sherlock began to disintegrate.

One day, John came in with coffees for each of them, and placed Sherlock’s (black, with an absurd amount of sugar) by his elbow.

“No,” Sherlock snapped. His voice had an imperious tone that was both strange and familiar to John.

“Pardon?” John said, rather more politely than he thought was warranted.

“Put it further off,” Sherlock said. “I cannot abide the smell of coffee.”

“You asked for a coffee!” John said.

“I most certainly did not. Now leave me be.”

John was rearing up for a classic Watson dressing down, when he caught himself with a sense of déjà vu, a familiarity with the voice, the tone… All the pieces suddenly fell into place, everything that had been building up since the case had begun, the case which had become more complex than they had anticipated.

His first emotion that came with this realization was a throb of fear - the same fear that had propelled him through their flight from England to Canada. He remembered Sherlock shaking and sweating, nearly insensate, after Sherlock had forced all five personalities into his body. 

Then he remembered Sherlock, their first morning in Victoria, telling him, “They - we - all love you. Each in their own way. All of us. Together.”

A calm settled over him as he realized what he needed to do.

He put down his coffee cup and pulled on Sherlock’s shirt sleeve. “Come on.”

“What.” The single syllable was sharp, nearly spitting the T.

“We’re going out for a coffee. Get some air.”

“Busy.”

“Just for a few minutes. Please.”

“You go. Leave me in peace.”

“Vernet, please.”

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes wide. For a moment he simply blinked at John, then silently stood and put his jacket on.

Without a word, they walked together out of the lab and outside into the warm, muggy air. John had had some time to explore the immediate area a little bit, and instead of turning toward the Starbucks where they had been getting their coffee for the last ten days, he turned in the opposite direction, past the museum. Sherlock hesitated as though to question him, then followed in silence.

They walked through a set of old stone gates into a park, where the cherry tree blossoms were turning over into fruit. John walked down a path toward a building that was similar in style to the museum – an older building renovated with an addition made of steel and glass. In the atrium between the two sections of the building was a high-ceilinged hallway with a café, and a few people scattered about, some with instruments beside them.

“What is this place?” Sherlock said, the first time he had spoken since they had left the lab.

“It’s the Royal Conservatory of Music, there’s a nice café here.”

[ ](https://s3.amazonaws.com/staging.api.kpmb.twg.ca/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/14212020/0019_N78_300dpi.jpg)

Soon they were settled with a latte for John and an Americano for Sherlock. Sherlock sat for a moment in silence, fiddling with the handle of his cup.

“How did you know?” he said quietly.

“Remember that I worked with each of your personalities for nearly a year before you integrated with them. I know their voices well.”

“You are very perceptive.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m – I’m having increasing difficulties maintaining cohesion. There is… discontent. I don’t understand.”

John touched his fingertips against Sherlock’s hand, wrapped around his coffee cup. The warmth of the liquid radiated through Sherlock’s hand. He heard his own voice in his mind, from so long ago, saying ‘Not actually a machine.’

“I think I do,” John said. “This is the first really big case you’ve had since…Since. You’re still getting used to all of the aspects of your personality being in the same body. Up until now, you’ve been able to balance them – allowing each of them to express themselves, to be themselves. Scott, the chemist, has been having a grand old time, hasn’t he, with all the pH analyses?”

Sherlock smiled, just faintly, and nodded.

“And Sherlock, of course, is on a case, so all’s well with him. And William? Vernet? Victor?”

“Victor was a barrister, remember,” Sherlock said. “He’s enjoying the legal aspect of all this. But Vernet…”

“You left your violin behind,” John said softly.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, nearly a whisper.

John looked at Sherlock, saw his sadness and his regret. They had both made an error in judgement, and if they wanted to solve this case, recompense must be made.

John sat up and looked around the café. It was late afternoon, and there were a number of students with their parents, waiting for their classes. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, stood, and walked over to a boy who looked to be about ten, sitting with his mother, a case by his side.

“Hi, my name’s John,” he said when the boy looked up, suspicious and wary. He made sure to include the mother in his smile, but directed his words towards the boy. “I wanted to ask you a favour. I’m from England, as you can tell from my accent, and so is my friend over there. He plays violin and didn’t bring it with us, and he misses playing a lot. Would it be all right if he borrowed your violin for a moment?”

The boy gazed at John, then over at his mother. The mother cast a glance at John, and then at Sherlock, who was still sitting at their table, hunched over his coffee, looking sad and lonely. She nodded minutely at the child.

“I went to camp last year and I couldn’t bring my violin, Mom said it might get broken or stolen,” the boy said. “I missed it a lot too.” He opened the case and brought out the violin and bow, and with another glance at his mother, he trotted over to Sherlock and presented them to him. Sherlock’s face dropped with surprise as the boy said, “Go ahead, if you want. But my lesson’s at five.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said softly, and John recognized William’s tone ghosting through.

Sherlock stood, and placed the violin under his chin. It was smaller than the violin John had seen him play before, no doubt because it was for a child to play, but that didn’t seem to matter to Sherlock. A few quick plucks of the string determined that the violin was in tune. Sherlock’s posture changed, and John could nearly see the suit jacket disappear and be replaced with black tie and tails.

Sherlock took a breath and began to play.

Notes floated up to the high ceiling and back down, creating an echo of rounded tones that rolled around the café. Everyone in the café froze at the first sounds, and one by one, adults and children alike raised their eyes from their phones and books. Even the barista was still. John looked up and saw faces at the windows of the Conservatory peering down into the atrium. For a building that revolved around music, this kind of attention proved that Vernet’s playing was above what they were accustomed to.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, losing himself in the music in a way that was achingly familiar for John. He swayed slightly to the music, leaning into the longer notes as though his spine was matching the draw of the bow. His body held a slight tension, in strict attention to the music, but his face was relaxed, childlike and nearly glowing with happiness.

Like the others in the café, John found himself caught between being frozen in this beautiful moment, and wanting to stride forward and take Sherlock into his arms. He settled for concentrating on staying in his seat, and willing himself not to tear up.

Sherlock finished with a neat flourish of his bow, and the sparse audience around him applauded politely but unstintingly. Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he startled slightly, as though he had forgotten there were others in the room. His mouth twisted into a shy smile, and he bowed his head. The child from whom he had borrowed the violin approached him.

“That was awesome!” said the boy. “What was that piece called?”

“Chopin’s Nocturne, opus nine, number two.”

“Cool, I’m going to ask my teacher to teach me that next.”

“What are you learning now?” said Sherlock, with a kindness in his tone John knew was William’s influence.

“Beethoven’s Minuet in G.”

“Excellent. Keep practicing.” He handed back the violin and bow. “Thank you for the loan.”

“You’re welcome,” the boy said, and returned to his mother. As they headed towards the classrooms, John could hear the boy repeating, “That was _awesome_!”

John approached Sherlock, and without saying a word, gave into his urge to kiss him. Sherlock returned the kiss happily, with the tension from before leaked away. “You’re a genius,” John muttered against his mouth.

“No, you are,” Sherlock said, tilting his forehead against John. “Thank you. For figuring it out, before I could realize what was wrong.”

“You’re welcome,” John said. “However – what now?”

Sherlock’s eyes glinted with excitement, as if the case was new. “I think I know my error – focusing on only a single facet of the case. I’ve been concentrating on matching the pH levels of the earth sample, whereas there are multiple ways in which we can track down the source of the sample, and therefore our killer. Come on, John, back to the lab.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chopin’s Nocturne, opus nine, number two: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOlF3tJLTUs  
> Beethoven’s minuet in G: https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=29&v=E_hxUL_yluo&feature=emb_logo


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break in the case leads Sherlock and John to a theatre in the park, but trying to corner their suspect leads to a terrifying situation for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for personality dissociation (reminder that this is based in science fiction, not medical science)

They found Jerome in the lab when they arrived. It was clear that Jerome had been losing sleep – his face, normally jovial and smiling, was lined and slightly gray. “Anything new?” he asked. “My boss is starting to lose patience. I’ll have to call the police in soon if we don’t figure this out soon.” Jerome stopped, registering the smile on Sherlock’s face. “Have you had a breakthrough?”

“Yes and no,” Sherlock said. He found the original sample from the crime scene and carefully poured it out over a white table. “Jerome, John. What do you see? What do you observe?”

Sherlock had done this to John several times over their acquaintance. The first time, John had plunged in and done his best to follow Sherlock’s methodology of observation, to be met with sarcasm from Sherlock. For a while after that John had refused to ‘play the game’, until Sherlock had softened and said that he genuinely appreciated his input, that it helped him sometimes to see something that he hadn’t previously seen. The sarcastic responses had not disappeared completely after that, but John learned to ignore them.

Jerome had no idea of this history, of course, and immediately leaned over the table of earth.

“It’s dried out,” Jerome said. “It was mud when you first collected it.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “What was the weather around the time of the theft?”

“I remember,” Jerome said. “We’d had a dry spell and an early heat wave for about a week before, then the day before the theft we’d had a huge thunderstorm which broke the heat.”

John had already been suffering a bit in the hot weather, weather that he had never expected in Canada, and he wondered incredulously what an actual heat wave would have been like. 

“Good. So that means that the thief picked up this dirt on their shoe only the day before the robbery, giving us a fair idea of his whereabouts. Anything else?”

“Have we looked to see if there’s anything apart from dirt in there?” John said. He was thinking of the tiny thread of silk that Sherlock had found during their first case in Victoria, leading them to the store that both sold silk scarves and was the centre of a cocaine smuggling ring.

Sherlock pulled a set of tweezers from his kit and began to pick through the soil. “There’s a faint smell of dung,” Sherlock muttered. “Not cow or horse or dog though, I’m not sure… Ah!” Carefully he separated something he had found apart from the pile of dirt. “What’s that?”

They all stared at the tiny yellowish disc for a moment. “Piece of plastic?” John said.

“Popcorn husk,” Jerome said decisively.

“You sure?”

“I did my undergrad working at the Carlton theatre nights and weekends,” Jerome said. “I know that stuff.”

“So… a park with a movie theatre?” John said doubtfully.

“Don’t have one of those,” Jerome said. “But a park with a café, we’ve got a few of those.”

“But not all of them, I’m sure,” Sherlock said. “It will eliminate quite a number.” Sherlock walked over to the map of Toronto on the wall. “Jerome, circle the ones with cafes?”

“Um. Well, the Islands, the Beaches. But this big one, High Park, has a couple of them, it’s huge. They also have a Shakespeare play there every summer, at an outdoor theatre.”

“And people who work backstage often wear what, John?”

“Black clothes,” John grinned.

Jerome turned from the map with a huge smile. “I just remembered, High Park has a petting zoo. Goats and llamas and that.”

“That explains the strange dung smell,” Sherlock said. “Excellent!” He jumped in the air, pumping his fists as though his footie team had won, even though John knew he’d never seen football in his life. “Let’s go to High Park, gentlemen.”

**

Jerome drove them all to the park in his cluttered car. Sherlock claimed the front seat again, but kept twisting around to talk to John in the back.

“It’s unlikely we’ll find our perpetrator on this trip,” Sherlock said, “but hopefully find some kind of evidence of who they are, or possibly where the coin is now. Nonetheless, keep an eye open.” He fiddled with his phone for a moment, and then both Jerome’s and John’s phones chirped. “I’ve just sent you the security camera video. Study the thief’s build, their posture, their gait – that’s how we’ll identify them.”

“The park is huge,” Jerome said. “Where should we focus our search?”

“Around the café and the theatre are the most likely spots. Is there a play tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Well, let’s see how much ground we can cover before sunset and the play starting. Jerome, you take the café, and John and I will take the theatre.”

At the park, they split up, agreeing to text with any news. The park was heavily wooded, and John was amazed at this enormous park in the middle of the bustling city. Fortunately the route to the theatre was well signed, and John was surprised at the number of people already making their way to the play, carrying picnic baskets.

“We’ll have to be discreet,” John said, and Sherlock nodded.

“It’s coming onto five o’clock now. Sunset isn’t until nine or so, but the play starts at seven, I think. Enough time to have a good look around, ask some questions.”

It was a long walk from the car park to the theatre, but when they arrived at the area, it was full of cheery volunteers, children playing, and audience members enjoying a picnic while they waited for the play to start. John and Sherlock paid their admission fee and looked over the grounds.

“There’s a lot of places to hide, either a person or the coin,” John said. “Look, the backstage of the theatre is right against the forest. That might go as far back as the road.”

“True. You talk with the staff out front, I’ll see what I can find out behind the stage area.”

“Be careful. They won’t take kindly to people skulking around backstage.”

“I will.”

[ ](https://www.canadianstage.com/ArticleMedia/Images/Images/cs68/highpark_1300x800.jpg)

John talked to a few volunteers handing out programmes, but they didn’t seem to know anything about the show or the people involved; most of them seemed to be students, just there for the one night. Eventually he saw a cluster of people standing about drinking coffee near a small hut behind the audience that faced the stage. John’s hair stood up at first when he saw they were all wearing black, in contrast to the bright summer clothing of the rest of the audience, then he realized that they were probably the crew of the play. He watched them from a distance for a time, then concluded that none of them were their thief – none had the same posture or build.

He made his way over and inserted himself into the conversation, playing the role of baffled tourist.

“What time does the show start?” he said.

“Seven, unless we get called off for rain,” one woman said. “Unlikely tonight though.”

“And it’s _Richard II_ tonight?” he said, pleased with himself that he’d thought to look at the programme in his hand before he began this conversation. “One of my favourites.” He hoped fervently that no one would ask him more details about the play; he couldn’t remember it from school at all.

“You’re English?” the woman said.

“I am – came over from… the National Theatre,” John said, grabbing at the first London theatre company name he could think of. “We’re thinking of bringing over a Canadian production.”

“That’s cool,” said a man whose belt was festooned with flashlights and tools. “Last year’s R and J went to the Old Vic.”

“Exactly,” John said, not quite sure what the man meant. “We want to scoop them this time.”

“Look alive,” the first woman hissed suddenly. “Boss alert, boss alert.”

John looked over in the same direction that the crew were looking, and his breath stopped. A figure in black was walking – no, half running – from the backstage up the far right side of the amphitheatre. John noted the slumped shoulders, the lumbering gait, and knew that he had found their thief.

“Who’s that?” he said, pleased that he was able to keep his voice steady.

“The director, Michael Bantam,” said the woman. “He’s actually the artistic director for the company. We ended up being short-staffed backstage, so he’s filling in on crew, but he’s driving the actors crazy backstage. I haven’t got time to hire and train a new assistant stage manager before we close, so we just put up with him. What the hell is he doing up here? It’s nearly the half.”

“The half?” John said.

The woman looked at him oddly. “Half an hour before curtain.”

John cringed inwardly - so much for trying to pass himself off as a theatre professional.

“If he asks me to delay cashing my paycheque again, I’m calling the union,” another crew person said, the others rumbling in agreement, and John was grateful for the attention being drawn away from him. 

“Artistic director, is he?” John said. The man was nearly halfway up the audience area. “I should probably go have a chat with him.”

Running after the man would likely cause a panic, John thought, so he walked quickly and with purpose towards the man, who seemed oblivious to his presence. He needed to alert Jerome and Sherlock, but he had never been able to grasp Sherlock’s trick of walking and typing on his phone at the same time, so he pressed his speed dial and called Sherlock. It rang three times and went to voicemail, which surprised John at first, then he realized that Sherlock was likely backstage and might not want to give away his presence by talking out loud.

“I think I’ve spotted him, Sh – Joseph,” John said. The man was picking up speed, and John followed suit. “Dressed in black, believe it or not. Heading southwest away from the theatre. Calling Jerome.”

He rang off, and dialled Jerome, who picked up right away. “Heads up,” he panted into the phone. They were nearly clear of the crowd, and Bantam was starting to look backwards towards John. “Heading towards you and the café, dressed in black, name Michael Bantam.”

“Got it, heading him off,” Jerome said, and rang off. John slipped his phone into his pocket and broke into a run.

Bantam had a good head start on John, but John was a fast runner. As he closed the distance between them, John began to think about the situation: as much as John enjoyed an exciting chase and takedown, they were still in public and John was still not 100% sure this was their thief; his evidence at the moment was circumstantial at best. He decided to go with his earlier improvisation, try to talk to Bantam a bit.

“Mr. Bantam!” he called, shifting into a half-jog that looked a bit more like ‘trying to catch up’. “Mr. Bantam, may I have a word? I’m from the National Theatre in London.”

Instead of slowing down, Bantam looked around at John, and broke into a sprint.

“Ah well, I tried,” John said to himself, and followed suit.

Fortunately the crowds were thinning out, most of them already at the theatre. As he ran, John could dimly hear the opening lines of the play, amplified through the woods around them. John was able to keep Bantam in sight, the only one dressed in black amongst the strolling people wearing bright summer clothes. 

The distance between them was shortening, and John was beginning to taste victory, when Bantam took a sharp right. John realized he was heading into the forest, obviously hoping to lose him in the dense wood. This worried him; no doubt Bantam knew the area much better than he did, and the park was big enough that getting lost was a real possibility.

Before he could really contemplate what losing Bantam would mean, Jerome came barrelling out of nowhere, running straight into Bantam and sending him flying.

In an instant, Jerome was on Bantam, holding him down on the ground as Bantam struggled and spat. John could see Jerome’s background as a bouncer in his efficient takedown. John caught up, panting a bit and feeling his age. “Thanks, Jerome,” he gasped.

“No worries,” Jerome said, and the bastard didn’t sound out of breath at all, despite the fact that he had no doubt been running from the café. “You think this is him?”

“Let’s find out,” John said. “Michael Bantam, was it? Where did you put the coin?”

Bantam groaned, long and with a slight hitch in his voice. “We needed the money,” he said. “I needed the money. We’re not making enough from ticket sales.”

“Are you kidding?” Jerome said. “I bring my nephews every summer, it’s always sold out, packed solid.”

“And you’re not paying your crew, are you?” John said, remembering the comment from the crew about delaying cashing their paycheques. “So where’s the money going?”

“I was just trying to double it,” Bantam whined.

John sighed. Gambling – the age old problem, the age old motivator. “Better call the police now, Jerome.”

“On it.” Jerome shifted his weight so he could get to his phone, but Bantam didn’t resist or try to bolt – he clearly knew the game was up and had given up all resistance. He rolled his eyes up to John.

“I didn’t hurt him, you know,” he said.

A stab of fear jabbed through John’s gut. “Didn’t hurt who?” he said, his words cold.

“The other English guy? Is he with you?” Bantam said. “I just needed him to stop following me. But I didn’t hurt him, I swear.”

“Where is he?” John ground out. Jerome was on the phone with the police now, but turned his head when he heard John’s voice, frowning.

“Just in the props storage shed,” Bantam said, pointing back towards the amphitheatre. “About ten feet back from the stage, on the stage right side.”

John glanced at Jerome, who gestured him away with a wave and a worried expression, and John immediately turned and ran.

He ran directly into the backstage area, not caring now if the actors saw him. There were a few startled glances, a few whispered shouts of “Hey!” but John ignored them all. He ran to the far side of the stage, then spied a small green wooden shed standing in the woods. The dark was gathering around him, but he caught the glint of stage lights on a padlock on the door.

He could hear the projected actors’ voices from the stage; through his panic the words drove into his mind as though whispered directly in his ear:

_“Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure.”_

_"My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.”_

But very faintly, underneath the dialogue from the stage, he could hear a muffled shouting inside the shed. He reared back and kicked at the door with all his strength, feeling the vibration shudder up his leg. Once, twice, and finally the wood around the lock splintered and gave way.

The darkness inside the shed was total, and John fumbled for the small torch he always carried with him. He had expected to see Sherlock crouched in a corner, or perhaps standing imperiously waiting for John to arrive, but he saw nothing but clutter – thrones, boxes, a fake deer which startled John badly, tools, brooms, and, most bizarrely, a wooden coffin.

To his horror, he realized that the muffled shouts and thumps were coming from the coffin.

In a flash, he remembered standing in the ancient Egyptian gallery at the museum, looking down at the decorated mummy’s coffin, and the haunted look in Sherlock’s eyes as he remembered the beds that the actives slept in, back at the House.

Bantam could not have devised a better torture for Sherlock if he had considered the matter for a year.

He ran to the coffin, shouting, “Sherlock! Sherlock, I’m here!” The cries continued unabated, and he wondered if either Sherlock couldn’t hear him inside, or whether Sherlock was panicking too badly to hear anything at all.

John tried to lift the lid off, then swore when he realized that Bantam had nailed it shut – quickly and amateurly, but enough to keep Sherlock from kicking his way out. He could hear Sherlock’s hands and feet drumming against the rough wood, and that his voice was high and thready and hoarse with a fear that John hadn’t heard before. He scanned the tools, hoping for a crowbar or even an axe; he would chop his way to Sherlock if need be. A hammer was lying in the corner, clearly where Bantam had thrown it after nailing Sherlock in. John put the torch in his mouth, grabbed the hammer, and began to pry up the lid, the nails giving way to his desperation in loud metallic groans. 

After far too long, the last nail clattered to the ground and John threw the lid aside. Sherlock rose up out of the coffin and straight into John’s arms; John held him tight, whispering “Jesus Christ – it’s all right now – holy fuck – you’re okay, you’re okay.”

They sat together for a long time, John feeling Sherlock’s muscles tremble, feeling his own shock leak out of his body. Sherlock finally gave a deep sigh, and the last of the shudders dropped away from him. John let him sit up, and looked at him with a smile to cement the reassurance – but something was wrong. Sherlock’s face was set in a way that wasn’t like anything John had seen before. It was serious, but none of his earlier distress was evident.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said, clear and matter-of-fact.

“Hi,” John said, a bit curiously.

“Sherlock says we have to get to the coin. It’s nearby.”

John’s heart, which had only just begun to beat normally again, seemed to stop in his chest. “What?”

“Sherlock’s very frightened, so I’m speaking for us right now.”

John’s mouth formed the words he wanted, but he had to swallow, and swallow again before he could say them. “Who’s speaking?”

“This is Victor.”

_Oh god oh god oh god_ , John thought. “Is he – are you alright?”

“Physically, yes, but that was extremely traumatic. I thought I would be the best person to handle the situation.” Sherlock/Victor reached out and grabbed John’s hand. “I know this is confusing. I’m confused too, but you can help best by finding the coin, wrapping up the case, and getting us away from here.”

“Okay,” John whispered. He realized this was the first he had talked to Victor directly since this whole mess began. Victor had trusted him, so long ago, and so he had to trust Victor now. “Where?”

Sherlock/Victor stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “Sherlock had recognized the thief and followed him, and he’s pretty sure that the perpetrator was heading to where he’d hidden the coin. The guy must have realized Sherlock was following him and got the bead on him. He managed to give Sherlock a good clonk on the head, enough to stun him, and bundled him into that stage coffin before Sherlock could defend himself.”

John could feel his hands gripping into fists, and wondered how he would keep from beating the hell out of Bantam when he next saw him. Sherlock/Victor saw, and shook John’s hands loose again.

“Don’t think of that,” he said. “Remember, if you assault him, they might have to dismiss the charges on a technicality. I’m not 100% familiar with Canadian law yet, but I’m fairly sure the coppers wouldn’t look kindly on you beating the hell out of their suspect. The case is already on shaky ground because Jerome didn’t call them right away.”

“That’s right, you’re a barrister,” John breathed. His brain was still trying to get hold of what had happened, trying to make sense of Sherlock’s mouth and lips forming around words that he would never normally use, in a manner he had never used.

“Non-practicing, for many and sundry reasons,” Sherlock/Victor said with a small smile that made John wonder what the circumstances were for Victor to volunteer at the House. “Come on then.”

They left the shed. John noted that there were far fewer actors in the backstage area; the play must be at its climax, or near the end. He followed Sherlock/Victor deeper in the woods behind the stage with no discernable footpath, the dialogue from the play clear and distinct in the still woods. They were far enough for John to start looking behind him nervously when Sherlock/Victor pointed and said, “Look, there!”

A few meters ahead, in the gloom of the forest, John could see the glint of metal. As they grew closer, he saw that it was a small scooter, similar to what he’d seen children playing with, leaned up against a tree. Next to that was a pile of earth, clearly recently disturbed.

“Thank Christ this is only about a coin,” Sherlock/Victor said. “Imagine if Bantam had decided to try murder. You’d never find the body out here.”

They fell to their knees and began to dig. It was only a matter of moments before John’s fingernails scratched against something solid and smooth and cool. A few minutes later they were wiping the dirt away from the gold surface of the enormous coin, the Queen’s profile marred with mud.

As John stared down at the coin, he heard a shuddering sigh beside him. He jerked up to look, and saw Sherlock’s posture and demeanour shift.

“Sherlock?” he whispered.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was cracked and exhausted. He looked down at the coin. “Oh good. You found it.”

“Victor helped,” John said softly.

“Good.”

Sherlock looked up, towards the stage, as if seeing the words they were hearing from the play were visible in the air.

_This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England_

_This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings…_

Sherlock looked down, and John followed suit, and they both stared at the Queen’s image for a moment.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“I want to go home.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m shattered, John.”
> 
> “I know, love. Get your gear off and go to sleep.”
> 
> “No, I meant – I’m shattered.”
> 
> John’s breath stuttered in his chest when he realized what Sherlock meant. Sherlock looked up at him, looking vulnerable and young.
> 
> “Put me back together.”

They called Jerome to tell him they’d found the coin, and two police officers followed their directions to the site where Bantam had buried it. Bantam had already been arrested, taken away without protest or a fight. After the police had secured the scene from the curious eyes of the actors, who had now taken their bows and wanted to investigate what all the noise had been backstage, and after they had given their basic statements, they made their way back to Jerome. Jerome took one look at Sherlock and his face creased with worry.

“You okay, buddy? You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” Sherlock said, and John could hear Victor’s tone in his voice.

“Can you get us back to the hotel, Jerome?” John said.

Sherlock took the back seat of the car this time, half stretched out, his head leaning against the window. John wanted to be back there, holding him, but knew there was no room, and the time would come soon enough.

As soon as John closed the door of their room behind them, Sherlock sat on the edge of bed with a small sigh. “I’m shattered, John.”

“I know, love. Get your gear off and go to sleep.”

“No, I meant – I’m _shattered_.”

John’s breath stuttered in his chest when he realized what Sherlock meant. Sherlock looked up at him, looking vulnerable and young.

“Put me back together.”

John had a fleeting memory of their flight from England, of John watching Sherlock as the various personalities battled and fought inside him; of his feeling of absolutely helplessness.

Now he could help.

He stepped to Sherlock, inserting himself in the vee of his knees; Sherlock’s eyes never left him. John used his fingers to gently tilt Sherlock’s head up, and laid his lips against Sherlock’s. The kiss was almost chaste, but John used it to pour everything he felt for Sherlock into him - all his love, affection, admiration, and loyalty.

Sherlock accepted the kiss, but he still trembled with fear and exhaustion. John pressed deeper, firm lips and soft tongue, willing Sherlock to trust him, to give over to him, that John would take care of him, today and always. After a long moment, Sherlock finally went loose in John’s arms with a small sigh. John slowly eased him back until he was lying sideways across the bed, then pulled back slightly to look into his eyes. Sherlock looked up at him, open and vulnerable, and John began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

More of Sherlock’s tension ebbed away as each piece of clothing dropped to the ground. John gave himself a moment to look over Sherlock’s body – his long muscles, his flat stomach gone shaky with his breath, his strong shoulders and legs, his delicate feet. Sherlock watched him, observing John observing Sherlock, then reached up and tugged at John’s shirt.

John nodded and smiled, then stood and took off his own clothes. He took his time; no first-time desperation now, not even the usual post-case adrenaline. Shirt, trousers, socks, and pants one by one came off and puddled on the floor, John gradually revealing his body as if to say, ‘You are the only person I can be vulnerable with, just as I am the only person for you.’

John crept back onto the bed, holding himself up over Sherlock’s body, caging him in with his flesh. “I love you,” he murmured. He lowered himself down, and heard Sherlock’s breath come out as a sigh of relief, as though he had just returned home from a long journey.

Then he set to putting Sherlock back together.

With his hands he molded the different parts of Sherlock together – William, Scott, Vernet, Victor, and Sherlock himself – smoothing the edges until they fit seamlessly. With his mouth he sealed them together. With his arms he held them, treasuring each of them individually and collectively.

Then Sherlock, his eyes alight with pleasure and love, lifted his hands and touched John in return.

They made love slowly, honouring each other with their bodies, their movements deliberate. Gradually instinct took over, taking control of their muscles and joints, until they were moving together in waves crashing over their minds and in their blood. Sherlock cried out first, the sound swallowed up by John’s mouth, then John groaned deeply into Sherlock’s skin, and they shuddered together for a time.

They held onto each other, wordless, until the aftershocks released them. Then John held onto Sherlock until his arms went loose and lax, and John knew he was asleep. Even in sleep, Sherlock was smiling faintly, and John knew he was whole.

After a long time, John slipped out of bed; Sherlock was so deeply asleep he didn’t even murmur. He looked down at Sherlock and remembered everything that had brought them into each other’s presence, and then into each other’s love.

He nodded, dressed, and moved into the sitting room part of the suite. Ruefully, he realized that although they had been at the hotel for nearly three weeks, they had barely used it. There was a door between the sitting room and the bedroom; John pulled it most of the way shut. His laptop was sitting open on the table from the time when he had been looking up a list of all the parks in Toronto, and had abandoned it in despair.

He opened a new email, typed in an address that he had been remiss in typing for some time.

**

A few days later, John learned that summer in Victoria, British Columbia, is extremely rainy. He supposed the lush green of the gardens and fields had to have this level of rain, but he was starting to feel claustrophobic. It was still better than the smoggy heat of Toronto, though.

He sat next to Sherlock on the sofa, and adjusted the laptop in front of them so that Sherlock was framed properly in the camera.

“All right, Mycroft,” he said.

Sherlock said nothing, but John could feel him vibrating with excitement, almost as if this was a new case.

Mycroft’s eye and nose appeared in the camera, startlingly close, then he sat back from the camera until they could see his full face. “Hello, brother,” he said.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft glanced to his right and said, “Ready?”

“For what, Myc?” John heard.

In reply, Mycroft shifted his laptop, and Mrs Holmes appeared on the screen. At first she was looking at Mycroft, then followed his gesture towards the computer until she was squinting into the camera.

“William?” she said, her brow knotting with confusion.

“Hello, Mummy,” Sherlock said. “It’s nice to see you.”

John could hear William’s earnestness and sincerity in his tone, and smiled at Sherlock in reply.

“Where are you, William?” Mrs Holmes said, a bit crossly. “You haven’t been to see me in ages and ages.”

“I know, Mummy,” Sherlock said. His eyes flickered to Mycroft, sitting beside Mrs Holmes, and Mycroft gave a small nod.

“I have good news, though, Mummy,” Sherlock said, and he was smiling, smiling with joy and happiness that John knew was not just William’s, but all of Sherlock.

“I’m coming home.”

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @missdaviswrites for her great help with beta-ing this fic, and to @PeaGeeTibbs for commissioning it for Fandom Trumps Hate.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who followed me and John and Sherlock from The House to Victoria to Toronto... and back again.


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